Were all sexual relationships like that? I had yet to see anything resembling a healthy sexual relationship among my circle of friends. I wasn’t sure what a healthy sexual relationship even was, or if people actually had them. And we won’t even discuss my parents. I’d convinced myself long ago that my uptight parents had fucked only once in their entire marriage, and I---their only child---was the product of that single union. Sure, it was a ridiculous idea, but it kept me out of therapy.
But this exhibit’s sensual art---if you could call it that---held my attention. As the exhibit progressed, so did the bondage levels. By the middle of the exhibit---the gallery was one long series of adjoining rooms arranged in a straight line---the thread, neckties and yarn had progressed to things like leather straps, ropes, and plastic cable ties---along with a few full-on money shots of models’ genitalia. Nothing in-your-face or super-crazy, like what you’d see on the pages of Penthouse, but plenty of exposed cocks and well-trimmed lady parts. Still, it wasn’t the money shots that troubled me as much as the plastic cable ties.
Plastic cable ties? What did something like that really have to do with sex, anyway? It seemed like an odd choice. They evoked images of Home Depot, not the bedroom. The photos featuring them were especially strange given the sharp contrast, and it seemed the artist had made a special point to use them on the darker-skinned nudes to make them all the more prominent. There was even a pile of them set out against a black velvet cloth on a whitewashed pedestal, alongside a hand-lettered sign that said “PLEASE TAKE ONE.”
I did, fingering it absently between my fingertips while I studied a black-and-white silver nitrate print of a model’s well-manicured hands superimposed on what I supposed was her naked thighs, her wrists tightly bound together with a set of thin white cable ties. The plastic straps left deep indentations in her skin, made all the more prominent by the photographer’s use of harsh lighting and stark composition. From a distance the photograph was more abstract, and reminded me almost of a Georgia O’Keefe print, but up close the sheer sensuality was unmistakable.
“Put it on,” said a raspy male voice just behind me. “Tie it tight. I can help you if you like.” Underneath the scratchy, breathy overtone the voice was a startlingly deep, with the slightest hint of an accent, but I couldn’t quite place what kind.
I spun around. Standing just to my left was a tall, slender man with an angular jaw and broad shoulders. He had a slight stubble of beard, along with reddish-brown hair and arresting gray eyes that reminded me of dry ice. He wore dark blue slacks and a lighter blue oxford shirt with the collar open, no tie. The clothes were simple, but I could tell from their cut and the quality of the fabric that they were very expensive. His shoes were sleek, black, and European-looking with square toes, and he wore a silver Movado watch with multiple dials and matching silver cufflinks. Even his scent seemed luxurious---a hint of bay rum with undertones of sandalwood and jasmine.
“Here, let me,” he said, taking the cable tie from my hand. And then, even before I knew what was happening, with a few swift movements the cable tie was fastened tight around both my wrists, its slick, cold surface digging hard into my skin.
My press kit and purse crashed to the floor. The room began to spin, and dark clouds crept into my field of vision. Everything went blank.
When I came to I found myself half-seated, half-lying on a nearby bench. Dyed Red Hair was fanning me with a gallery program, and someone had put a cold cloth on my forehead. The tall, dark stranger was nowhere to be found.
But my wrists were still bound together tightly. And my press kit was missing.
I bolted upright in a panic, searching for my purse. I found it at my feet. It appeared undisturbed, but I couldn’t open it to check as long as my wrists were bound together with the cable tie. I tried pulling them apart hard enough to break it, but the plastic binding wouldn’t budge. In fact, the motion just made the binding even tighter. I winced as the hard plastic straps cut deeper into my skin, cutting off some of the circulation.
“I see Peter got hold of you,” Dyed Red Hair said with a chuckle, casting a sidelong glance at my bound wrists. “I warned you, he really doesn’t like art critics.”
“I’m a reporter,” I lied feebly, but I didn’t even believe my own fib.
I rubbed my bound wrists against my thighs. The cable tie had wound itself around tighter still, leaving deep red marks in my skin that I wondered might even become permanent. My hands were getting a little swollen, and I was sure I’d be left with bruises, maybe worse.
Still, it was painful, but not in a bad way. It almost felt. . .good. I couldn’t get my mind around it. The stinging sensation in my wrists reminded me of how the inside of my mouth felt after eating the really spicy Indian curries that I loved----burned and a little tender, yet in a way that satiated my hunger and only made me want more.
I blinked my eyes several times, as if to clear them of an unwanted vision, and the black clouds once again crept in. When I finally opened them, Dyed Red Hair was gone and I was sitting there alone. My hands were still tightly bound together. No surprises there; I wasn’t exactly making any friends here.
I stumbled upright and trudged back to the front of the gallery in search of Dyed Red Hair, or perhaps some other representative of the establishment. My tightly bound wrists made walking awkward, especially as I tried to keep a hold of my strapless clutch purse under one cinched elbow. Making matters worse, the satchel I used to carry my notepad, digital recorder, and press credentials was missing along with the press kit. I could only guess where they might be. Perhaps the artist had confiscated them and intended to turn them into an exhibit of some kind? Or perhaps that exhibit was going to be me? There was such a thing as live art models, or so I’d been told. Though I’m sure they usually consented to the process beforehand.
So Peter Rostovich obviously didn’t care much for the press. But I wasn’t sure how tying up art critics and absconding with their professional belongings was going to help his art career. Maybe if he were already the toast of the art world he could get away with eccentricities like that, but as far as I could tell, he was a nobody. He didn’t have a Wikipedia page, or even a personal website. (I’d checked).
I am so going to trash this show, I seethed to myself. As far as I was concerned, Peter Rostovich’s art career would start and end on the same day.
Dyed Red Hair was nowhere to be seen, but I found a fortyish man in a gray suit standing at the door greeting guests. He wore a hand-lettered nametag that read “Richard Darling, Flaming River Gallery.” I guessed based on the cut of his suit and quality of his shoes that he was one of the gallery’s owners, not just a staff flunky. That and he was talking to a gaggle of wine-sipping middle-aged business types about the potential investment benefits of high-quality art and photography.
I sidled up to him. “Excuse me, but I seem to have gotten into a bit of a bind.” I held up my wrists and chuckled, trying to make the best of a bad situation. “Can you help me get out of this, ahem, tight spot?”
Richard Darling turned away from his group of potential customers and looked on me with distaste. “Oh, it’s you,” he said dryly, narrowing his eyes at me. “Peter warned me you’d be in need of some help.” He beckoned me over to the lectern by the gallery entrance and produced a small pair of scissors from a drawer. He snipped the binding with one swift cut; the edge of the scissors nicked me slightly, breaking the skin but not drawing blood. It stung, and my arms got pins-and-needles sensations as the blood started circulating again.
I rubbed my wrists, trying to stifle the pain that suddenly surged through them. And yet, it was a different kind of pain. Not what you’d take an Advil for, surely. It almost felt like a drug itself. Not that I had a lot of experience with drugs, other than the painkillers I’d gotten in the hospital after having my tonsils out, but this feeling was, well, almost like a high. At one level it hurt, but at another level I didn’t want it to stop. In fact, I wanted more of it.
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nbsp; The gallery owner excused himself from his group of well-heeled customers and leaned in closer to me. “The artist is in the back room of the gallery, preparing to unveil the highlight of the exhibit. If you hurry, you’ll get to see the unveiling, along with the artist’s comments. And if you’re nice, he might even give you your press kit back. But I wouldn’t count on it.”
He turned on his heel and scooted off to greet a new group of gallery guests, leaving me standing there, gape-mouthed. I wasn’t exactly doing a good job of professional-journalist-slash-art-critic that evening. I would be lucky to get out of there with anything of substance at all, and at this rate I only had the kind of material suitable for a tongue-in-cheek humor column, not a review. I considered leaving right then and texting Hannah that I’d blown it, but I decided to give it one last shot before giving up.
A good reporter always gets her story, I told myself, and made a beeline for the back room of the gallery. Or rather, her art review----and this one would be beyond scathing. I kept my eyes down as I passed the increasingly erotic art that lined the walls and pedestals all around me, willing myself not to get aroused.
It didn’t work. By the time I crossed the threshold into the final exhibit room, my heart was racing and my crotch was on fire.
When I got there, I found the handsome stranger I’d seen before---he could be no one but Peter Rostovich himself---standing in front of a large, drape-covered object. Based on the previous rooms I’d expected that this one would be filled with all kinds of photos and art in different media, but this room had only the drape-covered object and nothing else, except for a few scattered chairs and benches. And the shape of the object gave nothing away. It could be a sculpted nude, or a Sherman tank, or an Egyptian obelisk. There was no way to tell.
My eyes scanned the room, searching for any evidence of my press kit or satchel. There was none. There weren’t any other spectators here either; I assumed everyone else was still working their way through the rest of the gallery. I regarded Peter Rostovich coolly. He was certainly a pompous ass if nothing else. What kind of person tied up art critics to the point of being rendered unconscious within thirty seconds of meeting them? This guy, apparently. Talk about having some serious issues.
Well, I wasn’t going to take that kind of treatment lying down. It was a matter of professionalism, not to mention some good-old-fashioned self-respect. “What the hell did you think you were doing back there?” I demanded, staring hard into those ice-like eyes of his. “You had no right to tie me up like that.”
“I was merely helping you get the full experience of the exhibit,” he replied, his tone neutral. He had that same slight hint of accent that I couldn’t quite place. I knew he was originally from the Ukraine, but he didn’t sound the least bit Slavic. With that accent, he could have been from England or Germany or even South Africa---what my linguistics professor would have dubbed “International Generic.” It was exotic, yet in a totally unfamiliar and anonymous fashion. “Much of my art is participatory in nature,” Rostovich explained. “I want the viewer to empathize with my subjects.”
“Do you make all of your subjects pass out, then?”
He chuckled. “No. You are the first.”
I suddenly felt lightheaded again and sunk back onto a nearby bench. “I really don’t take any comfort in that,” I said.
His expression softened and he took two small steps towards me. “Are you all right, Miss---“
“Delaney. Nancy Delaney. Though you could have read that on the cover of my reporter’s notebook, which I am assuming you stole from me while I was unconscious.”
“I didn’t steal anything, Miss Delaney. I am merely holding your belongings for safekeeping. And are you sure you’re all right? You just went deathly pale.”
Though I hated to admit it, I did feel very strange. Lightheaded, dizzy, and warm all over, especially between my legs. My forehead had broken out into a sweat and I had butterflies in my stomach. I didn’t feel sick so much as I felt, well, turned on?
Was this really how it felt to be turned on? I didn’t know. I had no experience with that feeling, except maybe for the giddy screaming I’d once done at boy-band concerts in junior high.
I held my head in my hands for a moment and took several long, deep breaths, trying hard to steady myself. Remember, you’re on the job here, I thought. You have to act professional. But this man was making it damned difficult. Something about him----and his art---was arresting. “I’m fine, really,” I lied. “I just forgot to eat dinner, that’s all.” That part was true. I’d skipped lunch too---I’d only had a granola bar since breakfast.
“Well, no wonder you passed out, Miss Delaney. Our bodies require nourishment to function.”
I squinted at his patronizing tone. “I understand basic biology.” At least where eating was concerned. I was still a little sketchy on certain aspects of reproduction.
“I meant no offense, Miss Delaney. I’ll make sure the hors d’oeuvres tray gets to you first. We’re having fresh raw oysters and Beluga caviar, among other things. Sent by my personal contacts on the Black Sea. Wonderful stuff.”
“No thank you. I hate caviar and raw oysters make me vomit.” My reporter’s mind sensed an opening, though. “So, did you grow up on the Black Sea then?”
“I vacationed there sometimes,” he replied, and came to sit beside me on the bench. His close proximity made me feel warmer, more dizzy, more nervous. But I clamped down and tried to focus on getting my story.
“You and your parents?”
“Yes. I still have some extended family that live in that vicinity. The Ukrainian wing of my family was quite high up in the Soviet Communist Party at one point in time, so we had access to some prime vacation spots in that area. At least, we did while my father was still living.”
“The Ukrainian wing of your family? Are there other wings, then?”
“My parents were both Jewish, but from different sects,” he explained. “My father’s side was very secular---you had to be if you were in the Party---but my mother’s side was from the Russian steppes, and very traditional. It made things interesting, especially after my father died.” He paused and seemed to check himself. “But enough about me. What brings you to my opening?”
“Well, as I’m sure you already know, I came to review your art. And if I may be so bold, you haven’t exactly made a good impression on me.”
I detected the hint of a smile on his lips. “Are you speaking of me personally, or of my art?”
“I consider the two things inseparable. Entertwined, even.”
His eyes sparkled. “My, my, such big words.”
“I am a writer, after all. And don’t tell me you’re one of those types who think all women are dumb.”
“Oh I’m not, I assure you. You just seem awfully young to be out reviewing gallery openings for magazines, is all. Art News Now, is it?”
“Yes.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You must be quite the hotshot young reporter to have a job at such a reputable publication at such a young age.” Unlike before, his tone wasn’t the least bit patronizing---quite the opposite---but it still ruffled my feathers a bit.
“I’m a freelancer,” I snapped. “And there’s no need to pretend that it’s a prestigious publication, because it’s not. But I have to get my foot in the door somewhere.”
His expression softened, and he cocked his head at me slightly, as if in surprise. “You mustn’t sell yourself short, Nancy. I confess I have an active subscription to Art News Now. I read it religiously.”
“You and about five other people on the whole planet.” The snide remark fell out of my mouth before I even had time to think. As soon as it was out I clapped my hand over my mouth, mortified. “Oh my, I really shouldn’t have said that. My roommate would kill me if she’d heard.”
“Honesty is a good quality in a writer. Or any creative artist, for that matter. You should be very proud of that trait, Miss Delaney. You’ll go far with it.”
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I was completely taken aback at his compliment. “Thank you, Mr. Rostovich.” An artist? Me? I’d never thought of myself in that way, and yet he did.
“Please, call me Peter.” He smiled and extended a hand. “Look, we haven’t been properly introduced, and I think we sort of got off on the wrong foot. So let’s start over. I’m Peter Rostovich, the featured artist of this exhibit. And you are Nancy Delaney of Arts News Now. It’s a great pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
I hesitated for a moment, then accepted his hand. His grip was tight and firm as he shook it, staring me straight in the eye all the while. I could feel his gaze upon me like a warm shower; it resonated deeply, all the way down to that curious spot in my groin that had been nagging at me all evening. It was a part of myself I’d never noticed before, but it was standing at full attention now. Standing at full attention and demanding solace. And the more I spoke with Peter Rostovich, the more vocal that deep, dark place in my body became. It called out to me, loud and clear. It was all I could do to keep the volume down to a dull roar.
“Nancy----er, Miss Delaney---are you all right? Are you sure I can’t get you something?” Peter’s voice broke into my reverie. I felt my face go redder as I broke yet another cardinal rule of professional journalism----tuning out the subject in the middle of a face-to-face interview. What on earth was the matter with me?
“I’m um, I’m fine,” I lied, fanning myself with one hand. “But it is rather warm in here, isn’t it? Could I get some ice water or something? And a snack?”
Domino (The Domino Trilogy) Page 2